


Last Light

by DestinyWolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Hurt No Comfort, I'm kind of just pretending it's a bad dream sherlock has, I'm still not sure why I wrote this, It's All Fine, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One-Shot, Overdose, Pain, Sherlock is captured and drugged by Moriarty's agents, So much angst, Unhappy Ending, all the pain, and when he wakes up, maybe because I Love To Suffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:26:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: Sherlock is captured and drugged by Moriarty's agents.





	

Everything is blurry. The streetlights overhead are smears of blinding white against a hazy night sky. Sherlock tries to sit up, to speak, to do anything, but his body is wracked with overwhelming pain at the smallest movements. He inhales, and his breath catches in his throat. His fingers tingle. His mouth is painfully dry. _Not good,_ he thinks, and tries desperately to remember what happened.

_Three men, one woman. Three strangers, and John's wife._ Sherlock gasps in a deep breath, and his body shudders with relief at the sudden influx of oxygen. He manages to sit up, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. A sharp pain flares along his right side, and he clamps his hand over his ribs, grinding his teeth together. _Cracked, most likely. Possibly broken._

He's outside 221B. A young woman has stopped a few feet from him, her hand over her mouth, dark eyes wide and full of confusion and concern. “Are you alright?” Her voice is strained with worry.

With a herculean effort, Sherlock gains his feet, his movements jerky and pained. He does his best to hide his discomfort, however, offering up a small, curt smile. His kidnappers—Moriarty's agents, he assumes, if Mary was among them—must have drugged him, and then dumped him back on Baker Street. But _why?_ There had to be a reason. Before he can figure it out, he thinks, he needs this woman to go away. “Fine, thank you.” His voice and gait are uneven as he approaches the door. All he wants is to get inside, to get to John, to make sure…

“John?” He stops at the base of the stairs, holding onto the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. His breathing is uneven, his heart beating in an unnatural rhythm. Vaguely, he wonders what it was that they gave him. Not that it matters. John will tell him, John will fix this, John always makes everything better…

John's voice floats down the stairs, distant and muffled. “Sherlock, is that you? I was about to go out. Do you need anything?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, forcing his tongue to work even though it feels heavy and useless. _You,_ he wants to say, but the word won't come. So he hangs his head and focuses on evening out his breathing. He closes his eyes, his body shuddering and his knees threatening to give out as a wave of nausea sweeps through him.

John's footsteps come down the stairs, and Sherlock raises his head. John stops a few stairs from the bottom, his gaze fixed on Sherlock. Sherlock watches his flatmate's trained eyes scanning him, taking in the paler-than-normal complexion, the darkness around his eyes, the abnormal size of his pupils. “Sherlock.” John's voice is low, dangerous. “I told you what would happen if you did this again. You promised me it wouldn't happen.”

Sherlock straightens up, forcing his body to stop shaking. _Take control,_ he tells himself, over and over. _It's just transport._ He opens his mouth to defend himself, to explain, but all he manages to get out is, “John, please...”

John shakes his head. His expression is caught between disappointment and betrayal. “Nope. No. I'm not listening to this. I don't want to hear your excuses. Not this time.”

“Mary--” Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off at once.

“No, don't you dare bring her into this. She's gone, Sherlock.” John stomps down the last three steps, past Sherlock, and heads for the door, grabbing his coat as he goes. “I'm leaving. If at any point you want to stop lying to me and actually get clean, phone me. Until then, I can't be here. I just can't.”

Sherlock sinks to his knees as the door slams shut behind his flatmate. His friend. _My heart._ He brings a hand up to his chest, wincing at the sudden flare of pain the movement evokes. Beneath his fingers, the unsteady beat grows even more erratic, and his breath catches in his throat, heavy and thick. Too much, too much, too _much_ and suddenly the last of his formidable willpower gives out, and he collapses with a gasp onto the cold, hard ground, shaking and panting.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ He counts the beats of his failing heart, each inhale like the jagged scraping of a dagger over rough concrete. _Thud._ The pain of his ribs nearly matches the pain behind them as every second brings him closer to the end. _Thud._ He stares up at the ceiling, his vision fading again, struggling to keep the last beacon of light in his world—the warm glow of a distant overhead lamp—from going dark. _Thud._ Not that it matters, really, when his North Star has already set, eclipsed by anger and a slamming door. _Thud._ Silence. Silence. Silence. _Thud._ Sherlock gasps, panic rearing its ugly head. His heart pauses again, and refuses to restart for an agonizing five seconds. So this is what Moriarty wanted, then. What Mary wanted. For him to die alone, just out of reach of help, with John's final look of betrayal branded across his soul. 

_I'm leaving,_ John had said. 

_Then so am I,_ Sherlock thinks, and closes his eyes _._ As his senses fade, the silence in his chest stretches on toward new-found infinity. His thoughts flee toward darkness, and the last thing he thinks, the last thing he sees before the end, is a hand reaching toward him through the gloom. And behind it, a pair of familiar blue eyes as achingly beautiful and bright as dawn breaking over a summer sea.


End file.
